


This One Time in Shanghai

by Eligh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mostly porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Phil just keep on accidentally having sex. And then Phil screws it up with (ugh) <i>feelings</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Time in Shanghai

Phil did not— _had_ not—ever anticipated this course of events.

In daily life with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, he was intimately acquainted with the weird, had lived (and died, and lived again) through the impossible, and generally thought of himself quite the open-minded sort of guy, especially considering that on the surface he was (as Tony Stark so often pointed out) the quintessential g-man. Phil personally felt that label was a bit off-mark, as while he was indeed prepared with forms (in triplicate) for any number of eventualities, said events revolved around the extra-normal. He doubted very much that his counterparts in any of the other alphabet agencies possessed his unique skillset.

Case in point: part of his daily routine involved regularly liaising with beings who purported themselves as gods. For a hobby, he enjoyed working (and experimenting) with and on technology from other dimensions, specifically the weaponry. And on top of all this, he was well versed in the intricacies and vagaries of several possible worlds, negative spaces, alternate realities, and the beings that lived in each. He was expected, as a routine practice, to anticipate events from any of these places that could possibly cause ripples in this, his preferred chain of existence.

In precisely none of these other worlds, negative spaces, or alternate realities, however, had he anticipated the possibility of one Clinton Barton (codename Hawkeye, a founding member of the Avengers Initiative, and current sometime asset of SHIELD) on his knees in a SHIELD safehouse, doing his level best to replace his body’s imperative for oxygen with Phil’s cock.

“Jesus Christ, Barton,” Phil whimpered, threading his fingers through Barton’s close-cropped hair. He narrowly resisted pushing forward, lifting his hips away from the wall and just _taking_ , but that would be unspeakably rude, and Phil was only rude when the situation called for it. This was certainly _not_ one of those times, but Barton apparently didn’t care for propriety or the effort Phil was making to consider his asset’s throat, because he promptly relaxed it and tugged forward on Phil’s hips, the universal sign for ‘go ahead, boss, fuck my mouth.’

Never one to turn down an obvious beneficial offer, Phil took this opportunity and ran with it, thrusting (gently at first, then with more enthusiasm) into the slick and wet and hot. One of Barton’s hands was splayed over his hip and the other squeezed once on the opposite side before disappearing to only gods knew where. A glance down revealed that he’d tugged open the zip on his tactical suit and has his own cock in hand, pumping it in time with Phil’s sliding in and out of his throat.

(Oh dear god, Barton was obviously trying to kill him by way of libido overload, and actually this was entirely possible—was he going to be assassinated? Was this Barton’s way of apologizing for the coming (heh) hit? A blow job, followed by a quick double tap to the back of the head? Phil knew an awful lot about an awful lot of people (many of them awful themselves) but he didn’t think he’d be retired like this, not after the concerted effort SHIELD’s doctors had made to keep him alive in the first place. Still, the WSC wasn’t thrilled that he was still around, after all.)

(It perhaps should be noted that Phil may have not been thinking at his usual level of clarity by this point. He rather thought that, under the given circumstances, he certainly shouldn’t be blamed for this.)

Barton pulled away with a pornographic slurp, panting, and Phil’s knees may have buckled a little. Lust-blown blue eyes looked up at him and Barton’s hands didn’t let go of their respective burdens, one tightening on his hip (there’d be bruises tomorrow, and Phil felt his mended heart lurch at that realization) and the other slicking wetly over his own cock. “Sir,” Barton croaked, his voice _wrecked_ , his lips swollen and brushing against the head of Phil’s aching dick with every word, “would you like to come on my face? Paint me with it? ‘Cause I’d enjoy that very much. Sir.”

_Fuck_.

Phil nodded jerkily, then slid his hand down and grasped his cock, running his fingers over flesh made wet with Barton’s saliva, and guided just the head back into that waiting mouth. Barton parted his lips easily and suckled, tongue pressed tight against the bottom flare of Phil’s glans, and yep, that’ll do it, thank you very much.

The noise squeezed from Phil’s chest was one he will firmly deny ever making: a breathy, stuttered gasp, followed shortly by what could only be termed as a whimper. He pulled his dick away as it began to pulse, pointing it at Barton’s face, striping his come down one flushed cheek, catching it on that swollen bottom lip, watching as it dripped down into two-day stubble on Barton’s chin.

Barton tilted his head back and opened his mouth, catching the last thread of release on his tongue, a very satisfied smile growing when he licked over his lips, gathering more and drawing it in. The movement of his hand on himself sped up, and Phil watched through heavy eyelids as Barton’s face contorted with his own release. For a moment, it looked as if he was in pain, but then Barton sucked in a breath, leaned forward, rested his forehead on one of Phil’s shaky thighs, and came all over the floor. He didn’t make a sound.

They stayed frozen like that for the span of about ten heartbeats (give or take) and then collapsed as one to the hardwood, a tangle of limbs and sweat that only narrowly missed the small puddle of come on the floor.

“That was fucking awesome, sir. Thank you,” Barton said after a moment. Phil blinked (because why was Barton thanking _him_?) and looked over. His come was still on Barton’s face ( _oh god_ , his _come_ was still on Barton’s _face_ , and that would be enough for months of fantasy right there). Phil blinked again, then tugged his handkerchief from his suit pocket and carefully wiped the mess away. Barton let him, grinning through Phil’s ministrations until he tucked the handkerchief (carefully folded with the soiled side tucked away from the fabric of his suit) away again. Barton then raised a hand, palm up.

What—

“What?” Phil asked, because his brain was perhaps still not firing on all cylinders. Barton had clearly sucked it out.

“High five, sir,” Barton explained patiently, wiggling his fingers a little. Oh. Phil reached up and tapped his palm against Barton’s, because apparently, this was his life.

~

Exhaustive special ops training, years of field work, and then further years of wrangling superheroes had created a very special skillset in one Philip Coulson. It was, then, some facet of said skillset that informed him he was being watched, hawk-like, from across the mess.

Phil took a measured bite of his salad and flicked to the next page on his kindle.

(He refused to use the Stark-brand e-reader that appeared on his desk last week on general principle. Technology should not be monopolized, Tony.)

(He is also fully aware of just who is watching him, and had chosen the descriptor ‘hawk-like’ with deliberate purpose. He was _also_ not about to give that maniac the benefit of his attention, not after the shit he pulled with Ramirez earlier in the week, because Phil could not afford to play favorites, not even with Barton. Should not. He sighed, mentally.)

“Sir?”

Phil finished his sentence, then finished his paragraph (then spent a moment considering finishing the chapter, but he wasn’t _actively_ trying to be a dick) and looked up.

“Barton.” The man in question had apparently overcome the chagrin of his recent chastisement and had advanced from his usual corner to Phil’s seat. He was now hovering, his face (mostly) blank. Emphasis on the ‘mostly,’ as the look lurking around Barton’s eyes could be classified as either nerves or deviousness. Phil lifted an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

The look resolved itself across Barton’s face (Phil reevaluated it to ‘suspiciously sly’) and Barton said, bland as the blandest of bland things ever to bland its way out of Blandtopia, “I was having some issues with my paperwork. I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Paperwork,” Phil said flatly, not buying it for a second. “You?”

Barton inclined his head, a miniscule smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. Phil absolutely was not charmed. Sheepishly, Barton ruffled a hand through his hair. “I actually lost the forms. You have some in your office, don’t you?”

“Doubtlessly,” Phil deadpanned. He glanced down, considered his mostly-uneaten salad, and then back up at Barton.

(Three months since the safehouse, and Phil had _not_ been counting. They’d interacted as usual over the past several missions, no hint of a repeat—Phil’s brain stuttered over an appropriate descriptor— _encounter_. It was unlikely that Barton would choose _now_ to—to do _that_. So.)

Phil heaved a resigned sigh and pushed to his feet, thumbing off his kindle and tucking it under his arm. Barton helpfully threw away his salad and joined him at the entrance to the mess, all smiles and slightly-too-straight military posture. Phil forced himself to pause for half a moment, making the conscious decision to take whatever Barton was playing at simply at face value. He said he needed paperwork? Phil could help him with paperwork.

Mission to interrupt Phil’s lunch apparently accomplished, Barton’s shoulders relaxed as they walked back to Phil’s office with absolutely no hurry in their steps. They made small talk about Cap’s recent discovery of Reddit and speculated idly about what had been so important to Stark that he’d flown a jet to the Australian outback to retrieve a ‘package’ that (if one was able to recover a particularly obnoxious ‘malfunctioning’ security camera’s tapes) would probably have been in the form of Bruce Banner.

Barton shared his observations that, after the jet had returned, there was a marked _increase_ in both the frequency of explosions and the consumption of Indian food revolving around Stark’s private labs, as well as a marked _decrease_ of chai tea bags in the kitchen. This only furthered Phil’s suspicions regarding the elusive Dr. Banner’s whereabouts.

(He’d asked Nick for some clarification about this subject just a few weeks ago, actually, and had been unceremoniously told to, and he quoted, ‘Mind your own damnfool business. Your ass ain’t assembling after that shit with Ramirez.’ Phil’d pulled out his best disbelieving look (left eyebrow slightly raised, arms crossed) because Nick _knew_ that wasn’t his fault. Nick had glared for a moment longer, then sighed something about New Zealand or Australia, _he_ wasn’t Banner’s personal watchdog, go bother someone else. That had been good enough for the moment and Phil’d put it to the back of his mind until Barton, who was now complaining about the utter lack of worthwhile cereal in the Tower, (read: Trix or the like) had brought it up.)

Barton wrapped up an amusing anecdote involving Cap’s introduction to Roombas at the moment they reached Phil’s office, which seemed vaguely too convenient. Still, (because he _was_ attempting to take this particular interaction at face-value) Phil unlocked his door and gestured Barton inside.

This was the point, he supposed, when he _should_ have anticipated it all going to hell.

The door was barely shut before Barton had tugged the kindle from under his arm and tossed it unerringly to the center of Phil’s desk (at which Phil made a soft noise of protest because be _gentle_ with the damn thing, it was expensive). Phil then found himself pressed up against the door, Barton’s lips dragging hotly along his neck, fingers loosening the knot of his tie. The not-so-subtle press of strong hips against Phil’s revealed that a firmly established erection had been hiding behind the confines of Barton’s loose-cut cargo pants.  

“I thought you were having a problem with paperwork,” Phil protested, his argument severely weakened by his grabbing of two handfuls of Barton’s ass and yanking him closer. Goodbye propriety, hello sexual harassment.

“Absolute pretense, sir,” Barton lobbied back, sliding Phil’s tie from his collar and tossing it over his shoulder. “You know I never do my own paperwork.”

“And here I was hoping you’d turned over a new leaf,” Phil sighed. He shoved Barton’s shirt up, coaxing up his arms to tug it over his head and off, because though he hadn’t been thinking about this in any realistic terms, he certainly wasn’t about to complain _now._

“I’ll turn over something,” Barton purred, stepping away and leaning against Phil’s desk. He unzipped his pants slowly and shucked them down to his knees (he was of course not wearing anything underneath and Phil was not even remotely surprised). He then turned around, bracing his elbows on Phil’s desk and bending over at the waist. Phil’s dick decided that now was a good time to utilize all of Phil’s blood flow, thanks.

“This is wildly inappropriate,” Phil commented, though that sentiment did nothing to stop him from advancing and pulling down his zipper as he went. “I am your handler. Stop seducing me.” He pressed himself against the lines of Barton’s back and nipped lightly at his shoulder, reaching around the palm teasingly at Barton’s dick. It jumped in his hand, and Phil shuddered.

“I’d say you’re handling me just fine,” Barton threw out, turning his head to leer, and Phil very nearly rolled his eyes. “Besides, there’s no seducing happening here. We’re just two grown men, engaging in a little let-off of tension.”

“You think I’m tense, Barton?” Phil asked low into his ear. Barton let out a shaky breath and pressed backward, inviting. Phil adjusted himself, spreading Barton’s cheeks and slotting his cock in the cleft. He was dry, and Phil had never exactly had a reason for keeping lubricant in his desk drawers.

(He might need to reevaluate that, though.)

“I think you have a high-stress job, sir,” Barton returned. “And that you don’t get laid enough.”

“I seem to be doing just fine at the moment,” Phil said conversationally, spitting in his hand and slicking it over his dick. He wouldn’t risk penetration, not with just saliva to ease the way, but he could certainly make use of Barton’s ass. His round, firm, muscled ass. Phil shuddered again.

“Yessir.” Barton leaned over a little further, spreading his legs, and Phil slotted up against him, reaching around at the same time and grasping hold of Barton’s cock, thumbing over the head and sliding down, fingers tight. “Oh god, sir.”

“Shh, Barton,” Phil murmured, thrusting up slowly against him, the drag of skin on skin kicking up his heartbeat. “I know it’s a foreign concept, but my office isn’t soundproofed.”

“Did you—” Barton’s gasp coincided nicely with a sharp twist of Phil’s wrist “—lock the door?”

Did he? Phil didn’t think so.

“No.” He pushed up again, his swollen head catching for a moment on the edge of Barton’s hole. Jesus, with just a little more slick—Phil sucked in a faltering breath. “You’ll just have to be quick,” then added, “and _quiet_.”

“Not—not a problem, sir.” Barton was shaking hard, now. “Been thinking about this all day. Been thinking about this for weeks.”

Phil laughed, low and filthy. “Were you thinking about it during your dressing down last week?” Barton nodded jerkily.

“Sir. Wanted you to show me who was boss, then, sir.”

“I wanted to, too,” Phil growled, the muscles in his stomach jumping. “How about in the meeting this morning? Were you daydreaming about my cock while you were supposed to be listening to Captain Rogers? Is _that_ why he had to keep telling you to pay attention?” He dragged his fingers up and squeezed lightly on Barton’s cockhead.

Barton’s voice trembled. “Yes, yessir. You weren’t wearing your jacket this morning, sir. Your goddamn arms, I wanted you to bend me over the meeting table, just like this, just, please, _please,_ stick your dick in me, oh _god_ , sir, I can’t ignore it anymore.” Barton pressed back and Phil bit down a whimper. Fuck fuck _fuck._

“Not today,” he forced out despite every atom in his body screaming for him to just _do_ it. “You’re still on official reprimand, I don’t think you deserve that. Besides, a good agent always comes prepared,” he went on, reaching down with his other hand to fondle Barton’s balls. “Were you _prepared_ for me, Barton?”

“Oh god, nosir, no, I’m sorry, sir.” Barton thumped his head down on the desk and Phil spared a wary glance behind him at the unlocked door.

But he was getting close, and had other things to concentrate on. “Don’t—don’t let it happen again, Agent,” he breathed, pressing hard, the tip of his dick parting the very edge of Barton’s hole and then stuttering away.

“Nosir,” Barton keened. “I mean, yessir, oh god, _Coulson_ —” he came, pulsing over Phil’s fingers and splashing wetly against his desk. Phil let him take a moment to catch his breath, then pulled back slightly and jacked himself roughly. It only took a few moments and then he was over the edge, too, coming with a low grunt directly into Barton’s crack.

Barton rested his head against Phil’s desk, panting slightly, and Phil took a staggering step backward, very nearly falling over when he almost tripped over his trousers. He shook his head, absently licked come off his fingers, then leaned down and tugged his pants up. They were slightly wrinkled, but he’d survive. He was done with meetings for the day, anyway.

When he looked up, Barton had turned back around and was leaning against the desk, staring at him, his mouth hanging open. Phil frowned slightly.

“What?”

“Do you have any idea how hot you are right now?” Barton sounded a little strangled. Phil glanced down at himself: rumpled clothing, his face probably flushed, definitely sweaty. He tugged at his shirt, tucking it back into his waistband before zipping up, and eyed Barton.

“I suppose there’s _something_ you have to find appealing.”

Barton barked out a short laugh and yanked his pants up, then bent over and swiped his shirt up from where it’d fallen on the floor. “Something, yea, sir.” Phil spent the next several moments busy contemplating the fact that Barton hadn’t wiped up and that the seat of his pants was doubtlessly going to be soaked within a minute.

Letting that thought sink in, Phil closed his eyes and took a breath, meaning to let it out with words vaguely resembling a, ‘we should talk about this,’ conversation. Before he could get a word out, however, there was a sudden rattle of filing cabinet, and Phil opened his eyes to find Barton rooting through the drawer, plucking blank forms out seemingly at random.

“Barton,” he sighed, “what are you doing?”

Barton just flashed him a grin and brushed past, lingering for a moment at the door handle when he realized that the door had, in fact, _not_ been locked. He opened it with a rattle and sent Phil an entirely-too-flirtatious wink. “Thanks for explaining that paperwork, sir,” he said loudly, and Phil fluttered his eyes shut, mortified. “It was just so… hard.” And then he was gone, leaving Phil standing dumbly in the middle of his office.

Right, Barton’s plan was death-by-sex. Should have been obvious.

Now, where the hell was his tie?

~

“This is horrifically boring.”

Phil blinked straight ahead and didn’t give Barton the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Seriously, how do you even handle _doing_ this? Is life this boring on every op you run these days? ‘Cause I’m about to go crazy.”

Phil did not sigh. Sighing would be like informing Barton that he had managed to get under Phil’s skin, and that would end up nowhere good. Instead, he glanced over, radiating his best levels of professionalism, and said, “Radio silence, Agent.”

Barton grinned at him. They were locked together in the cramped back of one of SHIELD’s ubiquitous black vans, running eyes and ears on an issue involving Phil’s new team and a possible underground fighting ring of extra-normal humans. It was one of the smaller vans, necessary for camouflage purposes, and with addition of all the equipment, this meant that they were sitting on the floor, knees bumping.

“I’m not an agent, anymore, Coulson,” Barton corrected, and that was certainly true. His resignation from SHIELD had gone through over two months ago, (just after their encounter in Phil’s office and immediately before Phil’s promotion and reassignment) and Barton was now officially a Stark Industries employee, under the purposefully vague title of ‘contractor.’ He was currently on loan back to SHIELD, the result of his inability to lurk effectively in ceilings and on rooftops with still-sensitive half-healed injuries after a fall that had resulted in too many broken bones and a lengthy hospital stay.

(Phil had visited him only once, when he was still high on morphine and completely nonsensical. Phil’d brushed a dry kiss across his pale, clammy forehead and sat silently by his bed, his fingers light on the back of Barton’s hand. His (overly-confident, unnecessary-risk-taking, jackass of an) archer had surfaced long enough to slur out a happy, ‘ _Hey, baby_ ,’ that Phil was fairly certain Barton didn’t remember after he’d been weaned from the drugs. Phil wasn’t about to remind him, and didn’t closely examine the lurch in his chest those words had caused.)

“Not an agent,” Barton repeated happily, poking at one of the knobs controlling the video surveillance unit, (Phil slapped his hand away) “and is ‘radio silence’ really the correct term when we’re sitting in the back of a van together? I mean, there’s no radio.” He grinned and scooted slightly closer. Phil regarded him warily, his eyes narrowing when Barton thumbed the ‘mute’ button on their comms. They could still hear what the field was saying, but they wouldn’t broadcast.

“Just you and me, a backseat, a dark alley…”

“Eyes on target, Hawkeye,” Phil said softly, but then unconsciously licked his lips. Dammit, Barton… Phil didn’t need this right now.

(Need, no. _Want_ was an entirely different matter.)

Barton had honed in on that gesture, his too-clear gaze resting squarely on Phil’s mouth. “I can multitask, sir,” he said, his voice low.

Dammit, dammit, dammit… Phil glanced at the video feed. Everything seemed well in hand, Ward and May were doing their thing, there was no unusual chatter on the comms, and this was really a milk-run anyway; he didn’t think their suspects were even in the area anymore…

“Barton, we shouldn’t…” he hedged, hesitant, but Barton was already even closer, breathing against Phil’s neck, his lips brushing against his collar. Phil cleared his throat, abruptly very warm in his summer suit, and resisted the urge to loosen his tie.

Barton, of course, then did it for him, wriggling at the knot and flicking open the top button on Phil’s shirt. Another button, two, and then his warm, calloused hand was sliding in, running lightly over scar tissue. Phil closed his eyes. _God_. He was sensitive there, something clear by the way the touch elicited goosebumps and a shiver.

“That’s it, sir,” Barton rasped, pressing his lips to the underside of Phil’s jaw. He kissed down, light presses down Phil’s neck until he reached the jut of his collarbone and bit down, easing the sting a moment later with a firm lick. Phil’s breathing stuttered—Barton was going to leave a mark.

(It was only slightly surprising to realize just how little he cared about that.)

Barton shifted, rolling somewhat awkwardly to his knees and pressing his groin against Phil’s leg. He was hard, but Phil could see that Barton was favoring his right leg, where he’d taken the brunt of his fall. Protective worry reared its head and Phil reached out, stilling Barton with a hand to his chest. Barton’s face fell for a split second before Phil shot him a knowing look and continued pushing, pressing Barton backward to lie back on the floor.

The hurt look was replaced instantly with a positively lascivious one as Barton let Phil mold him into the position Phil wanted him. Phil raised an eyebrow, his fingers light against Barton’s chest, as he silently commanded him to wait a moment. Barton settled back, tucking his hands under the back of his head and smiling up at Phil, who pressed his comm more securely into his ear and told himself to make sure to at least keep half an ear open to the outside world.

He double-checked that their broadcast was still actually on mute, then turned and settled between Barton’s legs, nudging them apart and running his hands appreciatively over firm thighs and up to cup lightly at the bulge at Barton’s groin.

Barton let out a pleased hum and Phil ducked down, nosing along the hard line in Barton’s jeans.

“I owe you a blow job, I think,” he murmured, and smiled when his words caused that hardness to jump, pulse up against the confining zipper. 

“Would you?” Barton asked, suddenly breathless, and the tinge of amazement in his voice made Phil pause for a moment, glancing up to fix Barton to the spot. Phil furrowed his brow.

“Unless you’d rather I didn’t,” he said, and Barton shook his head vehemently. He flapped his hand.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“This has to be fast,” Phil cautioned as he dragged down Barton’s zip and gathered him up in his hand. Barton nodded, eyes wide, and Phil ducked down, pausing for just a moment to size things up before he, er, dove in. Barton wasn’t circumcised, something that Phil was well aware of, but he’d never sucked on someone uncut. Ah, well. There’s a first time for everything.

This first touch of his tongue to the tip of Barton’s dick was firm, controlled, and excruciatingly teasing, a far cry from that blowjob in Shanghai where Barton had swallowed him down in one go, somehow managing a sort of awkward finesse despite the sloppiness. Phil fought down a smile as above him, Barton made a soft noise of protest.

“I thought you said _fast_ , Coulson,” he complained, and well, _that_ wouldn’t do. Phil needed something to occupy Barton’s mouth. Inwardly smirking, he offered up two fingers.

“Suck,” he ordered. “Get them wet.” Barton let out a shaky breath and lifted his head, nipping first at the pads of Phil’s fingers and then sucking them carefully into his mouth. Phil fluttered his eyes shut and wrapped his lips around the exposed head of Barton’s cock, reveling in the feeling of it filling and hardening more against his tongue, the foreskin pulling back as blood flow increased. Barton’s tongue played around his fingers, sucking lightly as he circled them, and Phil mirrored his movements, sinking down a little lower before bobbing his head back up.

He felt Barton’s breath stutter around his hand and took him in further, wrapping his free hand low at the base of Barton’s dick and brushing his thumb down to tease at the soft skin of his sac. Barton’s mouth went slack and Phil pulled back his hand, dropping it down and sliding it with intent behind Barton’s balls.

“Yes,” Barton breathed, and opened his legs as wide as he could in the cramped back of the van. “Please, Phil.”

Hearing his first name slip from between Barton’s lips almost gave Phil pause, but he recovered admirably, hollowing his cheeks and pressing firmly at Barton’s ass at the same time, the tip of one finger unerringly finding its way into the sharp heat of that solid body. Above him, Barton swore under his breath and Phil heard a thump; when he glanced up, Barton’s head was thrown back and he was biting his lip, eyes closed, his hands holding tight into his own hair. Phil twirled his tongue and added the tip of his second finger, then smiled best he could around the burden in his mouth as Barton let out a soft whimper.

“ohthfuckphil…” Barton slurred.  “Not gonna, howsthis even _real_ …” Phil felt that this collection of half-words was more than adequate praise (especially considering how long it’d been since he’d sucked cock) and began to bob his head in earnest, punctuating each increasingly deep downward movement with shallow thrusts with his fingers. He could feel himself rock-hard in his neatly (or not-so-neatly, anymore) pressed trousers and rocked his hips experimentally against the hard floor of the van. It wasn’t quite enough, but it’d do for now.

(In his ear, Ward and May were arguing about something, but their tone was more their usual bickering rather than something threatening. Phil really should be paying closer attention; he clearly wasn’t about to do so.)

Hot fingers abruptly slid into his hair, and Phil almost pulled away (because he didn’t have a comb on him and should probably try to limit the later appearance of debauchery) but then one of Clint’s hands (wait, no, _Barton_ , he never called him Clint) smoothed down his cheek, gentle and shaking so very slightly, and Phil looked up.

Barton was wrecked, color in lurid splashes high on his cheeks. His hair was sticking up on the sides where he had been grabbing hold of it, and his mouth was open in silent ‘oh’ of shock and pleasure.

“God, Phil, I’m there, just—” He bit his lip again, worrying it red and swollen. Phil wanted to surge up and bite it back, lick into his mouth and claim him, replace his fingers with his dick and _take_ him, right here on the floor of a SHIELD-issued surveillance van. _God_ but he wanted, had never wanted something so badly in all his life.

He rocked his head down again instead, going deep and letting Barton’s cock take up all the available space in his throat. He pushed hard at Barton’s ass with his fingers, crooking them up and pressing against the hard nub he’d previously been deliberately avoiding. Barton _bucked_ and tore his hands away from Phil’s face, biting down on his knuckles to stifle the noise, almost immediately washing Phil’s mouth with salty bitterness that Phil fought to swallow down. He almost made it, gagging a little but not too embarrassingly, though a little of Barton’s come made it past his lips and dripped down his chin.

Phil sat up onto his knees, fumbling with his zipper with one hand while wiping his mouth with the back of the other. With Barton taken care of, he couldn’t get into his pants fast enough, jerk off hard enough, and he scrabbled quickly with layers of fabric until he had his cock in his hand. Underneath him, Barton was looking up, dazed, though he was blinking back to reality fast enough that Phil had only given himself a few rough strokes before he found himself tugged down and Barton’s hand was replacing his own.

“I’ve got you, Phil,” Barton murmured, quiet and controlling and in complete reversal of their usual roles. He licked up the side of Phil’s neck and then, oddly, hesitated at Phil’s lips, breathing out in short puffs that were just _intoxicating_. Phil grumbled his protest and leaned in, closing the distance between them and claiming those lips for his own. Barton still seemed hesitant, though, so Phil closed his eyes and tilted his head to rest their foreheads together.

“Clint,” he said, and Barton’s hand on him sped up, squeezing just on the right side of painful. “Kiss me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” was all Barton was able to get out before their lips met again, and Phil was gone with Barton’s hand on him, pulsing between them and making a mess on Barton’s t-shirt.

They just breathed together for long minutes until Phil distantly became aware that Ward was grumping through the comm at him, something about heading back to base, how the op was a bust. Phil blinked and reached up to turn off the mute.

“Sorry, Agent,” he said, uncomfortably aware of just how fucked-out he sounded. His voice was hoarse. “We had a small situation back here and—” Barton snorted and Phil shot him an unimpressed look “—I didn’t catch that.”

Ward, of course, immediately sounded worried. “ _Is everything all right, sir? What sort of situation? Do you need backup?”_ There was a click, then May was on the line.

_“Your voice sounds odd, sir.”_

Phil breathed out slowly through his nose and allowed himself to blush. There was no one to see him but Barton, anyway. “Don’t concern yourselves, Agents. I’ve got everything under control. Stand down. Tell me again what happened with the ring.”

Ward still sounded dubious, but he refocused. _“It’s really nothing. They won’t be back here for another couple weeks. With your permission, we’re headed back to base._ ”

“Fine,” Phil said, accepting a water bottle Barton had unearthed from somewhere and silently thanking him with a raised eyebrow. “See you there for debrief.” He thumbed off the comm and let his head fall back against the floor of the van, rocking to his side to peer at Barton.

“Sorry about your shirt,” he said after a moment of silence.

Barton grinned, his face flushed and happy. “Entirely acceptable casualties, sir.”

It wasn’t until hours later, when Phil was finally back in his office after a tedious debriefing that had culminated in Fitz and Simmons getting into a heated argument with Ward about infiltration techniques, that Phil realized just why Barton had hesitated before kissing him. They’d never—well, they’d done plenty. Short of actual penetration, they’d thoroughly run the gambit of basic sexual acts. But they hadn’t kissed.

Phil sat back in his sinfully comfortable leather chair and smoothed back his hair. How had Barton put it? It had been months ago when he’d said it—after all, they’d only done this… thing… three times. A let-off of tension, that was it. Phil frowned. He shouldn’t have kissed Barton. That wasn’t what men letting off tension did.

With an aggravated sigh, Phil yanked a manila file that was just about filled to bursting with paperwork closer. He wouldn’t entertain the thought that this thing with Clint ( _Barton,_ dammit) hadn’t _ever_ really felt like just the ‘release of tension.’

~

“Why now?” Phil asked, and Clint shot him an incredulous look.

Granted, Phil supposed that this was possibly not the most suitable time to be asking this of him, given that fact that Clint was pressing Phil against an alley wall somewhere in one of Phoenix’s suburbs, Phil’s pants halfway down his thighs and Clint’s hand wrapped around his dick.

“Well,” Clint said conversationally, dragging his fingers up and rubbing underneath the flare of Phil’s cockhead, “the mission’s over, the big bad was vaporized or whatever the hell Tony did, it’s late and dark, and I want you. The alley was mostly just convenient, and I like the idea of you getting your jizz all over some rich Paradise Valley fucker’s wall.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “I understood the particulars of this specific,” he then faltered, likely due to the fact that Clint had brought his other hand into play and was now massaging gently at Phil’s balls, “um. Encounter. I meant, why _all_ of this?” He gestured between the two of them, encompassing that last several months with that small movement. “We’d worked together for the better part of a decade before Shanghai, Clint.”

If he had been anyone else, Phil supposed he might have not noticed the subtle way Clint froze up. It wasn’t that Clint stopped moving his hands, or his lips, (which were now kissing along Phil’s shoulder through his suit jacket) because Clint was good, and distracting, and frighteningly well-versed in tried and true methods of seduction. In fact physically—for a moment—he seemed to press just a hair closer. But simultaneously to that close press, Clint enacted a sort of abrupt mental distance, like he was pulling out of the moment. Alarmed, (because that wasn’t the reaction he’d been looking for at _all_ ) Phil reached up and cupped behind Clint’s neck, guiding up his head so Phil could press a kiss at the curve of his jaw.

“I’m not complaining, mind you.”

Clint relaxed slightly, though there was still something guarded in his expression. “Later, okay?” he murmured, glancing up at Phil through his eyelashes. “Let me get you off. I wanna get you off.” He twisted his wrist and angled his head, catching Phil’s lips firmly, and Phil melted.

(Beause he’d told himself not to kiss Clint this time—at least not full on the lips—but it didn’t count if Clint kissed _him_ , and well, who was he kidding? Kissing Clint was just about the best thing in his entire life ever.)

“Later,” he agreed into Clint’s mouth, pushing his own hands down and generally making a nuisance of himself, though he was able to get Clint’s zipper down and his cock out so they were rocking easily into each other’s hands. They ended up _both_ coming all over some rich Paradise Valley fucker’s wall, though the afterglow was unfortunately cut short by Hulk-wrangling duties, which quickly devolved into _Stark_ -and-Hulk wrangling duties and culminated into some very tense and aggravating _Rogers_ -and-Stark-and-Banner-sniping-at-one-another after-mission-briefs.

Phil couldn’t be blamed that in said resulting chaos, he completely forgot about his question and Clint’s deflection. 

~

“Shouldn’t—” Phil protested weakly, his eyes fixed on the spot where his fingers were disappearing into Clint’s body.

“ _Should_ ,” Clint countered breathlessly, the paragon of wit and decisive arguments, pressing back into Phil’s hand and stuttering his fingers against the smooth, polished table in an anonymous SHIELD interrogation room.

“Cameras,” Phil murmured, his protests even weaker, and Clint shook his head.

“Tony wrote me a program. We’re not being watched.”

That was mildly alarming. Phil stilled his hand. “You told Stark…?”

Clint whined in protest. “Nothing specific, I said I wanted to get into headquarters unseen, c’mon Phil, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

As if Phil could say no to that. Say no to Clint, who’d cornered him at SHIELD’s ground base and dragged him into this conference room, only to strip off his shirt, drop his pants, and turn around, showing Phil just how _prepared_ his was for this particular encounter. Phil certainly couldn’t be blamed for how he’d slid his fingers right in, his breath catching as he rubbed through slick and toyed with the rim of Clint’s stretched-out asshole.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he breathed into the back of Clint’s neck, pressing close and fumbling with his zip. “Do you have a condom?”

“We’ve both come in each other’s mouths,” Clint pointed out, sounding more focused than Phil thought was entirely appropriate. “I’m clean, and I know you wouldn’t have let me blow you without protection if you weren’t.” Clint paused, dropping his head and lowering his voice, something Phil recognized as being purposefully seductive. “And I want you to come in my ass, sir. Wanna feel it dripping out of me the rest of the day.”

Phil’s eyes fluttered shut. Holy. _Fuck_.

The intervening time between that statement and when Phil was sliding, slow and relentless, into Clint’s ass was almost embarrassingly short. Phil’d dropped his slacks like they were on fire and pressed a hand between the jut of Clint’s shoulder blades and entirely disregarded the complete, entire, and absolute impropriety of fucking his onetime subordinate in the same room where just yesterday he’d interrogated this week’s big bad.

The tight heat and pull of Clint’s ass on Phil’s dick was exquisite. The noises Clint was making underneath him (albeit muffled by a knuckle in his mouth and his forehead on the table) were exquisite. The shifting of Clint’s muscles under Phil’s hands was (wait for it…) exquisite.

Sharp need gathering in Phil’s groin made an uncomfortable testament that this particular encounter was going to be over distressingly soon. Phil opened his mouth to apologize, because what with the way Clint was moving combined with Phil’s view of his dick sliding in and out of Clint’s ass, he had come to the very definite conclusion that he had about thirty more seconds (if he was being generous) before this whole endeavor would come to a staggering climax.

But never one to let Phil get a word in and being the contrary fucker that he so often was, Clint sobbed out a noise that overrode Phil’s apology (it possibly could have been Phil’s name, but was so ragged that Phil couldn’t say for sure) and came untouched all over the table.

Thirty seconds had, for obvious reasons, been far too charitable. Phil groaned and latched one arm across Clint’s chest, pulling him upright and thrusting once more before emptying himself inside. He saw spots.

“Clint,” he breathed, his legs wobbling, and Clint huffed out a pleased-sounding laugh, tilting them forward so he could catch them on the edge of the table.

“Sir?” Teasing, happy, punch-drunk.

Phil didn’t want to pull his hips away from that intoxicating heat, even though he could feel himself softening, already on the edge of overstimulation. He would probably slip out soon, no matter how little he wanted to. Phil tightened his fingers on Clint’s chest, pushing through his sparse chest hair, and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss on the fragile skin underneath Clint’s left ear.

He didn’t want to let go. Ever.

Oh, fuck. _Fuck_ , he couldn’t do this. ‘Release of tension,’ Clint—no, not Clint… _Barton_ —had said. That was all this was supposed to be, and Phil was fucking things up, falling for—he _wasn’t_ falling for Barton. Could not fall for Barton, because that wasn’t what Barton wanted. Barton wanted—what? An easy fuck, strings-free sex, a non-relationship with someone who knew better than to develop feelings.

There’d been briefings about things like this. SHIELD was cautious (to put it mildly) of romantic entanglements, because no matter how closely protected an agent or asset’s loved ones were, they were always a weak spot. The fact remained that they could be taken, or killed, or blackmailed and then people would be hurt (see: Stark and Pepper and Extremis, and while that operation had finally resolved positively, it very easily could have gone south any number of times).

Phil wasn’t an idiot and could _see_ that he was clearly already compromised. This could affect ( _already has affected, probably_ ) his and Barton’s workings in the field. Even though they didn’t work directly together often anymore, Phil was still one of the few SHIELD agents with clearance to make calls in the field. By engaging intimately—romantically—with Clint, Phil was essentially, though inadvertently, sabotaging the Avengers Initiative.

He needed to stop this.

Without allowing himself to think further, Phil pushed himself away and leaned against the wall behind him, fumbling up his trousers as he went. His entire mental argument had lasted only a handful of seconds, but it had been enough for Barton to realize something was wrong. Phil saw movement out the corner of his eye, but refused to look up, to meet Barton’s eyes. Instead, he concentrated on his zipper and when that was set to rights, stared broodingly at the small wet stains that shone faintly on the fabric that covered his thighs.

“Sir?” Barton’s entreaty this time was more tentative, with shades of worry. “I—I actually came prepared with more than…” a slightly nervous laugh, accompanied by the rasp of a belt on denim. “I brought you a change of clothes, I knew that. That you couldn’t… Phil?”

“We can’t do this again, Barton,” Phil said, flat. “It’s been…” he closed his eyes. “Good. But I can’t—” He looked up, then. Barton’s face was carefully blank, his posture unnaturally still. Phil swallowed. “This is inappropriate. I’m not the person you should be looking toward for _tension_ relief.”

Something like confusion passed over Barton’s face and he opened his mouth, but Phil’s phone chose that moment to ring. He answered it (more relieved than he should have been) and nodded sharply at Maria’s words.

“I need to go,” he said once he’d thumbed the phone off. “My team.”

Barton nodded once, but when Phil made to walk past him, he snaked out an arm and grabbed Phil’s wrist. “Can we talk, later?”

Phil didn’t see what there was to talk about. “If you feel the need,” he said.

“I do.” Barton’s words were sharper than Phil’d anticipated, and he blinked. Barton twitched one corner of his mouth up. “I’ll find you when you’re back, okay?” And then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Phil’s cheek. “Be careful, Agent Coulson.”

Phil wasn’t sure what to make of that.

~

It was dark.

_“…weren’t such an ass, you’d maybe actually **see** what the appeal is…”_

This particular sort of floating was only accompanied by morphine, Phil was well aware. Something had happened.

_“…’cause **christ** I can’t believe you still think that—that—I mean c’mon how could you be you and still think…”_

Iron… something. Hand? Palm? Fist, yea, Fist. Ward had said something about a Fist being not quite as impressive as a full Man, if one was talking Iron. It had been funny; Phil’d been surprised.

_“…better ways to make me have a heart attack, Phil. I’m starting to think you have a thing for getting stabbed, man, I swear…”_

Talking. Someone was talking.

_“…called us the second that colossal jerk-wad showed up, or, I don’t know, Reed? It’s **him** Doom’s got issues or whatever with, you…” _

That’s right. They’d finally found the Iron Fist, and Phil’d been mid ‘Hey, So There’s This Organization I’d Like to Talk to You About’ spiel when Doom had materialized and blasted away half the harbor. There’d been a fair amount of flying metal, as was wont to happen when Doombots got involved.

_“…please, Phil…”_

There was pressure on his hand, and warmth. Phil fought to open his eyes, but they weren’t having it. Frustrating, but not as frustrating as when a new voice chimed in, grating and self-assured and endlessly aggravating.

“Clint. Look I know you’ve got this, what _ever_ ’s going on with Agent but seriously I have more important things to do than watch you moon over him, especially since our SHIELD lords and masters said he’d be fine—”

“Shut up, Tony.” The pressure on Phil’s hand tightened. “I’m staying here ‘til someone kicks me out.”

Stark had continued talking like he hadn’t even heard Clint’s words. “—and there is a man, out _there_ ,” a pause, and Phil could practically see the dramatic arm waving, “who is calling himself Iron. _Fist_. And granted, he does apparently pack a _bit_ of a punch but the guy wears skinny _breeches_ and _slippers_ and he is besmirching the very _name_ —”

“You’re a megalomaniac,” Clint said, but he sounded amused. “I think you’ve got iron poisoning.”

“It’s not my fault I’m so awesome. Bruce, tell him.”

A third voice joined the conversation, emanating somewhere from where Phil thought his monitors might be. Thought was coming more clearly, now, and he was fairly certain he was in the hospital. There had been a _lot_ of shrapnel, and Phil vaguely recollected a robot with a wickedly sharp _something_ that may or may not have made intimate acquaintance with his stomach.

“Hmm? Oh yes, of course, Tony. You’re the very picture of magnificence.” Bruce didn’t sound like he meant this in the slightest, and Phil wanted to smile. He liked Bruce. He liked anyone who could stand toe-to-toe with Stark and snark him back into place.

“Hey,” Clint said, his voice suddenly tight. “He moved. His mouth, he—”

“He’s waking up,” Bruce said mildly, “which I would have commented on earlier, but Tony likes to hear himself talk.”

“Holy shit, Phil. Hey, baby, wake up, I’m here.” There was a press of something warm and soft against his knuckles. Lips. Clint was kissing his hand.

“Aaand that’s our cue,” Stark cut in as the weight lifted enough from around Phil’s eyes for him to flutter them open. He was just able to catch Stark’s back as he herded a gently-protesting Bruce out the door and then he was there in the moment. Exhausted, battered, and unbearably sore, but there.

He blinked, and then focused on the man sitting by his bed.

“Hey, sir.” Clint was grinning at him.

Phil huffed out a breath and tried to push himself up in the bed. The smile on Clint’s face dropped, quickly replaced by alarm. He jumped up, sliding his hand under Phil’s shoulders to lift him up and simultaneously pressed the bed controls to get it into a more vertical position. There was a flurry of a sip of water and Clint fussily adjusting his sheets while carefully avoiding the bandaged swath of skin low on Phil’s side, and then he blew out a breath, smoothed hair back from Phil’s forehead, and settled back in his chair, which he’d somehow scooted even closer to the head of the bed.

Phil eyed him. “Baby?” he asked, and Clint looked confused, then sheepish.

“Couldn’t help myself, sir. You really need to stop getting stabbed.”

Phil looked down at his side. He couldn’t feel a thing. “It was just a _little_ stabbing this time, comparatively.” He sighed. “Assuming, of course, it wasn’t a shrapnel hit…”

“Definitely a stabbing, sir,” Clint clarified, false cheer barely covering a pained look. “Robot knife-hands.”

“How appealing,” Phil muttered, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. Clint watched him for a quiet moment until Phil lifted a hand and fought down a yawn.

“I wanna talk to you,” Clint said abruptly, and Phil blinked sleepily at him. He spared a glare for his morphine drip but turned warily back to Clint, regardless. He didn’t want to have this conversation and the gentle let-down that came with it. But Clint looked determined and it would take significantly more energy than Phil was capable of at the moment to escape.

“Right,” he ventured instead.  

Clint nodded, and then, of course, said absolutely nothing, instead fixing Phil with a look that was part exasperation, part concern, and part—nope, Phil wasn’t going there. False hope and all that.

After an interminable awkward wait, Phil cleared his throat. “Well, I’m considering going back to sleep…”

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” Clint said, entirely matter-of-fact, and Phil tried not to choke on air. Clint shook his head and reached out, lacing their fingers. Phil didn’t pull away.

“After Loki…” here Clint paused and looked down, hiding whatever expression had made its way to his face, “…and those three months you were technically dead or. Anyway. You came back and I told myself that I wasn’t going to fucking lose that again. Problem was,” he looked up and smiled, though it was weak. “You’d never looked twice at me. I mean, not even when we were in Rio, sir. And that was…” he glanced away, blushing. Phil widened his eyes slightly in surprise. Clint cleared his throat.

“Point is, in Shanghai, I’d had just enough adrenaline running to say fuck it and jump you, cause no man in his right mind turns down a blow job. And then you seemed okay with it, but I called it ‘tension relief’ to give you an out.” He looked chagrined. “Like ya _do_ , yanno, when you’re in love with your ex-handler and are as feelings-constipated as me.”

Phil really felt like he should contribute to the conversation at this point, but couldn’t seem to find the words. Clint just smiled at him.

“I see things clearly, Phil, even if it takes me a little while. But you’re a super spy, I shouldn’t be blamed for not reading you right.” He reached out and gently cuffed the side of Phil’s head, leaning in to whisper in Phil’s ear. “You showed your hand when you were fucking me in headquarters. You weren’t trying very hard to hide that it meant something to you.”

“Yes,” Phil croaked out. Clint leaned back, but not before brushing a dry kiss across Phil’s lips.

“Alright, sir. Sleep now, and I’ll be here when you wake up. Or, you know, in the vents or whatever if they try to kick me out. But I’ll be close.” He shot Phil another smile.

Phil fell asleep to the feeling of Clint rubbing slow circles into the back of his hand.

~

Phil was back in Shanghai, and the smartass kid who called himself a sniper was being… trying, which was absolutely nothing new. Not that the kid actually _needed_ a handler, given his general life experience and rather remarkable habit of not staying dead. Still, regulations.

Phil leaned back, screwed his earpiece in a little deeper, and bit back a sigh. “Wilson,” he said for what was probably the eightieth time, “are you aware of what the phrase ‘radio silence’ means?”

“ _’Course_.”

Phil valiantly suppressed the urge to drag his hand down his face in exasperation. “Then would you perhaps consider implementing it?”

Wilson was quiet for precisely forty-seven seconds before he started humming what was possibly an extremely off-key rendition of ‘Get Low’ under his breath. This rapidly devolved into quiet rapping. Obviously.

Phil squeezed the bridge of his nose and absolutely did not roll his eyes. He flicked on the mute and leaned back against a solid, warm body. “He’s insane,” he mused aloud, and Clint snorted in amusement.

Clint, who was under no circumstances actually here. Clint, who was _technically_ on a mission of sorts (really more of a social call) in Wakanda, which—interestingly—was nowhere near Shanghai. By this point in his career, Phil wasn’t involved in Avengers business except nominally, (or in the case of extreme emergency) so he was just going to go ahead and claim ignorance.

(The conversation regarding the fact that Clint was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing something that could only be described as a purple loincloth had been shut down immediately. “Not a word,” Clint had growled, shouldering the door to Phil’s room in the safehouse shut, and Phil had spent the next five minutes trying not to laugh whenever he caught a flash of violet.)

“He may be insane,” Clint pointed out as he stealthily loosened Phil’s tie and pressed his lips to his pulse point, “but he is effectively immortal.”

“A useful skill,” Phil agreed, his breath hitching as Clint pushed aside his collar for easier access. “You’re supposed to be in Africa,” he commented, teasing, and felt Clint’s lips turn up against his neck.

“You’re in Shanghai,” Clint said, as if this was an explanation.

Phil paused, almost unconsciously pressing closer to Clint. He could feel the hard line of Clint’s cock pressing against his lower back. “And?”

“And last time we were in Shanghai, I broke an assload of regs and sucked my handler’s brains out through his dick,” Clint expanded as he reached around and popped the button on Phil’s slacks. “I was thinking we could make it something of a habit.”

Phil spared a glance at his cameras. Wilson was making small, jerky dance movements to what could now possibly be a Lady Gaga song, though his rifle was resting unwaveringly pointed toward their perp’s only exit. Never let it be said that his tastes weren’t eclectic. Phil thumbed off the mute. “Wilson, use your discretion for the shot. I’ll be listening but I’ve got—”

“ _’Course, Coulson,_ ” Wilson interrupted, pushing his balaclava aside slightly to scratch his chin and revealing a jagged scar. “ _Tell Hawkeye I still owe him one. Not nice to shoot a rocket at people, Clint. Almost not as nice as ambushing them with trick arrows._ ”

Clint grinned and leaned forward, pressing the transmit button. “Shut the hell up, Wade, because _boomerangs._ Nobody appreciates boomerangs. And anyway, the trick—”

On camera, Wilson leaned forward and full-out laughed, clearly breaking cover. “—the trick’s that they’ve _all_ got explosives!” Phil closed his eyes in exasperation and listened to his boyfriend and his most annoying agent giggle about what was apparently an inside joke.

“Wilson,” he complained after another minute of escalating insults. “Eyes on target.”

“ _Sir_.” Wilson snapped off an insolent salute and sank back down into position. He went entirely still for a few seconds, then slowly reached up and scratched his nose with his middle finger, tilting his head so it was pointed directly at the CCTV camera Phil was using for surveillance. Clint snorted out a laugh as he reached forward again to press the mute.

“ _Anyway_ , sir. Where were we?”

Phil just closed his eyes and turned sideways so he could better kiss Clint, who grinned. “Why, Agent Coulson sir. You look so _tense_. Maybe I could help relieve some of that stress?”

Phil tilted back his head, leveled his best unimpressed look, and pushed Clint backward to sprawl on the floor. This action didn’t quite get him the reaction he’d been looking for, but the resulting leer on his boyfriend’s face was acceptable, too. Phil smirked and unzipped his pants. 

**Author's Note:**

> Right, this was supposed to be about 7000 words shorter and... gah. I wrote about six different endings before throwing up my hands and saying 'fuck it, it is two in the morning.' I wash my hands and hopefully get back to writing long-winded angstbuckets that I'm _supposed_ to be concentrating on.


End file.
